


Avenues of Compensation

by dexwebster



Category: Gossip Girl
Genre: F/M, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-13
Updated: 2012-06-13
Packaged: 2017-11-07 15:01:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/432430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dexwebster/pseuds/dexwebster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chuck has a question. Now he has to find a way to get the answer he wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Avenues of Compensation

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [Kink Bingo](http://kink-bingo.dreamwidth.org/)

"Say yes."

"What?" Blair turns around to look at Chuck instead of watching his reflection in her closet mirrors. 

"I'm going to give you something," Chuck says. He's leaning against he doorjamb to the closet. "And in a minute I'm going to ask you a question. When I do, I want you to say yes." 

"And why should I do that?" she says.

"Because the curiosity will kill you if you don't." Chuck pushes away from the doorway, takes a few steps towards her. "I have something I'd like you to wear for me." He's looking smirkier than normal. It is never a good thing, and a clear sign that he is either utterly confident or he is scared as hell and utterly faking it, the duplicitous little weasel. God, sometimes she loves him so much it makes her sick.

"I might," she says, a little breathless, "but if it's some trashy Frederick's of Hollywood lingerie or something, I will veto so fast your head will spin, Chuckles." She's aiming for nonchalant at the same time she's trying to get a handle on whatever he's planning and tips her chin up to look haughty instead of nervous as she strides by him. He doesn't seem to notice the bluff: he's clearly too focused on this little script he's thought out to bother. 

"I'm insulted that you think I would defile you with something so beneath your standards." A casual shrug. "Anyway, this is less clothing and more. . . accessory."

"Accessory?" She wishes she didn't sound so eager, but it's Pavlovian and can't be helped.

"In a manner of speaking." And then Chuck's hands are out, one closed, and inside there's a little oval-shaped _thing_ filling his palm. Too big to be jewelry, too small to be a purse, it is sleek and a very pretty, pale pink. It reminds her of the porcelain Easter eggs she used to get as a child. It looks innocuous enough, but she is very sure it is not a child's toy. She huffs—a sharp breath to hide the fact that the air would shudder out of her if she let it—and looks down with a careful moue of distaste, just enough pout to make it a tease.

"I'm assuming it does something other than sit there and be pink." 

Chuck unfolds his other hand to reveal a black rectangle the size of a matchbox with a row of buttons in the middle. "Only if I tell it to." He presses a button with his thumb and the little egg starts vibrating, thumbs it again a few seconds later to turn it off.

"Speaking of defiling," Blair says, and makes sure her expression conveys her disgust for what she is pretending is absolutely not going to happen. "Tell me that doesn't go where I think it does."

"You could always be wrong," Chuck drawls, "so why don't you tell me. As precisely as possible, please, for accuracy's sake." She isn't going to give him the satisfaction of saying anything right now and they both know it, but that doesn't stop him. "Come on," he coaxes as he leans in a little, turning his head like he's trying to hear. "You can say it."

"In your dreams," Blair says, and makes a noise of disgust. But there's a tight feeling in her chest, like she can't get enough air, so just for good measure she adds, "You're such a sleaze." 

Chuck smiles like it's a compliment.

"Wear it?"

"I don't want to."

"You're lying." He presses it against her through her panties, right up against her clit -- just for a few seconds, just enough for his fingers to brush the silk. It doesn't matter that the egg isn't vibrating right now, the pressure is enough to make her suck in a sharp breath. "Or you wouldn't be this turned on." 

"You're touching me," she snaps, "of course I'm turned on." She could kick herself for the admission, because it's a slippery slope that Chuck jumps all over. He presses closer—she thinks he does anyway, but she could be imagining it, it could just be the way he's looking at her and the predatory curl in his lip making her feel penned in. 

"I turn you on, hmm?" 

"Emphasis on the _being touched_ , genius, that's kind of how it works. The person doing it? Kind of irrelevant." She's going to lose big and part of her hates it, and part of her doesn't care and wants to pull Chuck against her and let him fuck her into the wall. The part of her that wants to give in is _aching_.

"Irrelevant." Chuck does not sound like he'd believe that if you paid him. "Of course. Because the perfect, impeccable Blair Waldorf that everyone sees would never admit to enjoying anything dirty, or sexual, or crass." His voice feels like a blanket wrapping around her, luxurious and warm. "That's what this is for."

"So you can horribly embarrass me in public?" She knows he wouldn't: they both know if he tried anything really malicious she'd have his balls for breakfast, and after all this time they're mostly beyond being petty with each other anyway. But they've been playing this game of sexual brinksmanship ever since Blair got up on that stage at Victrola back in high school, and while losing the round may be worth it going down without a fight is unacceptable. 

"So when we walk into dinner," Chucks says, "I can have a flawless meal with the most beautiful woman in the room, knowing the whole time that under that pristine exterior she is dripping." His hand drags the hem of her dress up her thigh, just a few inches, just for show, then continues up, gliding over her stomach and trailing up between her breasts. "So I can revel in the knowledge that I am the only person who knows what you're really like under here." 

Things happened while Chuck's been talking that Blair hasn't realized. She opens her eyes and takes a deep breath: her chest aches like she's been holding it. Blair bares her teeth. "I think you're overestimating your intel." 

"Really." The backs of his knuckles brush down her cheek. "So there's someone else who knows just how much you like being bent over that chaise lounge, hmm? If it's Serena I want details."

"You're revolting."

"You," he says, and kisses her cheek, "are lovely." His voice is achingly gentle, but he's holding her chin—not cupping it, but palm down, like all he has to do get what he wants is slide his hand down to her throat and hold her there while he takes it.

"Please," she scoffs. "You just explicitly said that 'what I'm really like' is _not_ perfect. Not the way to convince me." Weak, _so_ weak. It's a thin thread of defiance, and the part of her that's still clinging to it is fading fast, but she'll hold out for as long as she can even if she wants to arch and feel her pulse beat against the cage of his palm. 

"You're better than perfect," Chuck tells her, and presses up hard against her jaw, "because you're mine." He hesitates, then says, "Will you wear it?" 

"Chuck. Honey. There is not enough money on earth," she says sweetly—no, she _luxuriates_ , because the words are a slap in the face she can't give, her hands wouldn't let her even if Chuck's body weren't pressed close enough to make it impossible. 

"I see," he says. Whatever nerves he may be dealing with have been well hidden, and his frown isn't disappointed but disdainful, the face he makes when a waiter's brought him the wrong kind of wine or a business deal goes sour. "Then I suppose I'll just have to," and the pause is deliberate, a hot breath on her neck as the hold on her throat tightens, "find other avenues of compensation."

"You're a son of a bitch, Bass."

"Son of a bastard," he corrects. "I have it on good authority that my mother was a lovely woman." 

"It's kind of creepy that you're talking about your mother while you're—"

"While I'm what? Tell me what I'm doing to you." 

"You're pissing me off," she says, and tries to lean forward to kiss him when he pulls away but the hand on her throat stops her. She's going to lose, and it's going to be amazing.

"Oh, If I didn't have plans for you," he says, "Reservations for a private dining room and a tasting menu." His breath is hot on her ear. "I haven't decided yet if I'll make you come between each course or just tease you until they end." 

" _Chuck_ ," she pleads. The naked want in her voice makes her want to hide her face (when Blair Waldorf wants something, she does not beg for it, she goes and gets it), but she can't bring herself to stop looking him in the eye. He's _smoldering_. 

"What's your opinion? Would you like a few palate cleansers, or would you rather wait for dessert like a good girl?"

"I hate you so much," she says, and her voice is rough from the pressure on her throat, "can't you just—"

"Can't I what? What do you want?" 

There is a fine line between trying to make Blair do things she doesn't want to, and making her want to do things. It's one of Chuck's favorite places to play, pushing that edge of degradation, of use. 

"I'll give you whatever you want, Blair, but you have to ask for it." Giving in is the easy answer now—the _safe_ one—because all that's left is begging. They may cross that line sometimes, but that's for long, long weekends in the penthouse with nothing but room service carts and soundproof walls for company. 

Chuck says at last, "Say you'll wear it for me," and "Fine, yes, Jesus," tumbles out of Blair in a rush. 

Chuck presses close in a horrible, invasive excuse for a kiss, all pretense of sweetness melted away. There is no finesse and no care for comfort, and she slides a little, fingers scrabbling against the wall, because it's real and Chuck and better than perfect ever could be. Her legs spread to let him slip in closer as he kisses her and she feels open, wanton, dangling there from Chuck's hands. Anxiousness and arousal fight and compromise at anticipation, heartbeat throbbing against Chuck's palms. Dizziness rolls up through her like it's lifting her off the ground and if Chuck wasn't holding her up she thinks she'd fall over. 

She doesn't, though, when he folds down to the floor, graceful in a way that stops her breath in her throat. He leans in close, wraps his hands around the backs of her thighs as he presses a kiss to her belly through her dress. She strokes his hair and he looks up at her with those big bedroom eyes, licks his lips. She's never wanted to have a cock so much. Next time, she thinks, when it's her turn, she'll make him kneel just like this and buckle every strap. 

Right now, though, it is Chuck's turn, even on his knees in his impeccable suit. He doesn't look down again when his hands slide up her thighs, rucking her dress up around her hips. He curls a finger into each side of the slim waistband and drags her panties down to her knees. "Speaking of dripping." 

There is an impulse to spread her legs wider, to open herself up to him, when his fingers slipslide easily, and it is humiliating, just standing here while Chuck holds her open just because he can. She shivers at the rush of cold air, steadies herself with a hand on Chuck's shoulder. Breathes a soft, " _oh_ ," blinking at the sudden feeling of fullness. That little egg is bigger than it looks.

Chuck stands, licks his finger clean and straightens his shirt cuffs. She's waiting for for the first buzz of vibrations, expecting it at any second, but Chuck is just watching her. He doesn't even take the remote from his pocket. Just turns and holds his arm out like a proper escort. 

The private elevator is empty, thank god, but they pass a staff member in the hall who stops to ask Chuck a question. She swallows hard and keeps her eyes on the floor—has no idea what they talk about or even who it is, she's paying that little attention. She's focused on the egg, unyielding but not unpleasant as it shifts inside of her. Chuck's hand is still in his pocket. He still hasn't pressed one of the buttons. She's waiting for it, any second.

"Are you all right? It's not uncomfortable is it?" 

"Like you'd care."

"I do care," Chuck says, and he turns right there on the sidewalk and pulls her chin towards him with two fingers to give her a single kiss. "If I wanted you to hurt, I'd do it myself." It says something about how far gone she is that it seems sweet: a promise, not a threat.

The door to the limo is already open. Blair takes the three steps on quivering legs, slides in as the very picture of poise, and waits.


End file.
